


Moral Absolutism

by thereisnoshameinbeingcrazy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:29:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereisnoshameinbeingcrazy/pseuds/thereisnoshameinbeingcrazy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the johnlockchallenges August gift exchange for the prompt “Sherlock is a serial killer. He goes after dangerous criminals who escaped the law, not to avenge but to ‘correct the system’s errors’.” for firefliesandfaeries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moral Absolutism

John Watson is a good man, a better man than most. He has poor qualities, yes, as all people do, but unlike most of the world’s population, his bad qualities were overwhelming eclipsed by his good ones. Patient, loyal, kind, dedicated, caring, passionate…perhaps passionate to a fault. Maybe the secret to John Watson’s intrigue lie in that he was so good at being good that it became a bad thing. But Sherlock didn’t have time to think about that particular little nugget of thought; instead, he filed it away, compartmentalizing his thoughts before a man, face shrouded in scarves, slipped into the flat.

  
As per usual, his thoughts flashed back to John, back to that perfect puzzle. John was a good person, and the rest of the world was filled with horrible ones. Sherlock had known that for many years, decades even, before he met John, but comparing the scum of the Earth to his good doctor made the differences a little bit more distinct.

  
It occurred to him that he had referred to John in a possessive way, but there wasn’t a moment to think about that, because the man saw Sherlock waiting for him in the sitting room, and after a moment’s hesitation, leaped at him.

  
The fight, infinitely easier to predict than the path of his thoughts and the actions of his flatmate, ensued. The man came at him with hard slashes of his curved sword, swinging and stabbing and attacking without mercy. But mercy was something that Sherlock would not have afforded the man anyway, or many others like him. They came at each other ruthlessly, Sherlock ducking and dodging until he is able to land a hard blow to the man’s chest, making him stagger backwards.

  
Sherlock, unperturbed by the fight or the danger, straightened his jacket and went after his attacker. The man, with unexpected skill, manages to pin Sherlock back against the kitchen table, but it only takes him a moment to free himself and force the man back again. The scratch left on the table is what pushes Sherlock to end the fight; he tried so hard to keep is second life hidden from John, and a curved gouge in the wooden table from a sharp sword hinted at secrets that Sherlock would rather stay secret. His irritation propelled him towards the man, and with a trick he knew would bring an end to the fight, Sherlock pointed.

  
“Look!” He shouted, knowing the impressionable, obedient, stupid man would instinctively turn. Right again, Sherlock used his distraction to punch the robed man, a hard uppercut to his jaw that sent him sprawling back into his own armchair, unconscious. After a quick glance in the mirror to make sure that he bore no marks that would make John suspicious, Sherlock descended on the unconscious man.  
Though tall and thin, Sherlock’s body had a hidden strength, an underestimated power. He stooped and hefted the man over his shoulder, carrying him into his room and dropped him unceremoniously to the floor. The sudden impact seemed to have jarred him awake, but Sherlock sent him back into unconsciousness with a vicious kick to the head.

  
The head…yes, it seemed like this particular attacker had had a propensity for necks and heads. His deadly sharp blade was made for beheadings, so Sherlock decided that he would use the man’s own head for his experiments. He briefly considered using the man’s weapon for his death, but decided that his own array of knives and tools and one scalpel nicked from John’s medical case would suit his needs much better. But to carve up his latest victim now would make such a mess and leave a real smell, so Sherlock opted for his favorite weapon. Pulling the leather case out from its hiding place, he slipped a syringe out of it. With deft precision, he stabbed the long needle into a corked container of a perfect poison (the idea for the mixture had come from the closely examined contents of the cabbie’s pills and shortly thereafter was perfected by Sherlock) and loaded the syringe.

  
“You’ve been terribly rude,” Sherlock told the unresponsive man on the floor as his flicked the chamber of the syringe, watching the tiny bubbles form and explode in his deadly poison. “I gave you proper warnings, told you to stay away from me or you would die. A smart man would have stayed away, but a genius would have known I would come after him eventually anyway. Hm, maybe you are smarter than I’ve given you credit for. Doesn’t matter, I suppose, because this is your end anyway, regardless of how clever you think you are.” Kneeling next to the man, Sherlock stabbed the needle deep into his neck and pushed down the plunger slowly, knowing every drop would speed him along to his inevitable death.

  
The man didn’t move again, ceased breathing altogether, and soon enough, Sherlock was left only with a corpse, ripe and ready for tests and experiments—in due time, because John was due back from the shops any minute now.

  
After dragging the body out of sight and straightening his suit again, Sherlock hurried out to the sitting room and threw himself down in his armchair, grabbing a book and flipping it open to a random page just as John entered the building.

  
And that’s how his John Watson—the possessive again, hmm—found him, calmly reading a book, seemingly oblivious to the world. He glanced around, as if he knew something wasn’t quite right, but abandoned his efforts when Sherlock spoke up.

  
“You took your time,” Sherlock drawled, not looking up, not exposing his interest.

  
“Yeah, I didn’t get the shopping,” John said irritably.

  
Sherlock looked over the edge of his book, amused by his failure to procure the groceries that he thought were so important. “What? Why not?” Sherlock demanded in mock indignation, just to see what his flatmate would say.

  
“Because,” John snapped, “I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN machine.”

  
“You ... you had a row with a machine?”

  
“Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?” Sherlock pursed his lips, barely holding back a smile, wondering idly what John would do next.

  
“Take my card,” he offered, and without answering, John stalked off to the kitchen to retrieve it. He stopped suddenly and whirled back to face him.

  
“You could always go yourself, you know. You’ve been sitting there all morning. You’ve not even moved since I left.” Instead of answering, Sherlock pretended to be interested in the book again, preferring to let John think him lazy than to clue him into that morning’s activities. “And what happened about that case you were offered – the Jaria Diamond?” he asked as he looked for the card he wanted.

  
“Not interested,” he said dismissively, closing the book before he notices the curved blade where it fell onto the floor. Quickly sliding it out of view with his foot, he decided that the man deserved a rather brutal beheading for being so careless about leaving this damning evidence for John to find. “I sent them a message,” he amended before John could ask any more questions. When Sherlock looked up, he saw John inspecting the scratch on the table, and he decided that he’d really like to take that dead man in the other room apart piece by piece for threatening the tenuous balance of his double life: consulting detective and serial killer.

  
He was already preparing a dozen excuses and distraction and explanations, but John just shook his head and muttered, “Ugh, Holmes,” and proceeded to tut at the mess he made. Sherlock just shrugged it off, smirking at John’s back as he leaves again, to finish the shopping that he had so amusingly abandoned.

  
Once he was gone, Sherlock returned to continue the job he has already started, the one waiting for him in the dark corner of his bedroom, already imaging the havoc he would wreak on the corpse.

  
~

  
“Just tell me what happened from the beginning,” Sherlock said.

  
“We had been to a bar, nice place, and…” the man started, “I got chatting with one of the waitresses. And Karen weren’t happy with that, so when we get back to the hotel, we end up having a bit of a ding-dong. Don’t we?” Sherlock signed uninterestedly, watching his frozen breathe float away like cigarette smoke. “She’s always getting at me, saying I weren’t a real man.”

  
“Wasn’t a real man.”

  
“What?”

“It’s not weren’t. It’s wasn’t. Go on.”

“Well, then I don’t know how it happened. But suddenly there’s a knife in my hands…and you know me old man was a butcher. So I know how to handle knives. He learned us how to cut up a beast.”

“Taught,” Sherlock said with infinite patience.

“What?”

“Taught you how to cut up a beast.”

“Yeah, well, then I done it.”

“Did it.”

“Did it,” the man said agitatedly. “Stabbed her. Over and over and over, and I looked down, and she weren’t … wasn’t…move no more…any more. God help me, I dunno how it happened. But it was an accident, I swear.” Sherlock ignored him, standing up from the table and turning away. “You’ve gotta help me, Mr. Holmes. Everyone says you’re the best. Without you…I’ll get hung for this.

Sherlock smirked. He did admire this man’s sudden ruthlessness, his propensity for violence, but he absolutely despised begging, so with a sense of satisfaction, he said, “No, not at all, Mr. Berwick. Hanged, yes.”

He turned and left that meat locker of a holding room, relishing the slow-returning warmth to his body that had more to with the man waiting for him at home than it did with the heating units.  
Sherlock spent the cab ride home in contemplation, which wasn’t an altogether unusual pastime, but his thoughts circled in unexpected ways.

  
There were many things that people accused him of: apathy, sociopathic tendencies, lunacy, Asperger’s, that he got off on crime scenes, and they were all right in their own way, but Sherlock had his own title for himself: serial killer. It wasn’t about revenge or vengeance; it was about the world being so grotesquely unbalanced, uncivilized, unfair. It was about corruption. A vast majority of the bad people in this world got off far too easily, or were never even caught in the first place, or bought their way out of trouble.

  
This was all brought to Sherlock’s attention in his teenage years, when he had been high and homeless and wandering the streets, experiencing firsthand the cruelty, the malice of the common man. When he met Detective Inspector Lestrade, another man whom he categorized as truly good, and eventually procured a job unofficially among his forces, he saw that the corruption spread far and wide, among a majority of all people. Working with the police only proved to him how many guilty people slipped through the cracks, undiscovered or forgotten or given freedom in exchange for a favor, a bribe, anything.  
It was altogether obvious to Sherlock that he needed to fill in those cracks, to correct the system’s errors. So, between cases, he sought out those who deserved to be punished, in one way or another, though his preferred punishment was an ironic death that fit the crimes committed in their lifetimes. Deaths like beheading the robed man or letting the noose break the neck of the man who didn’t use his head. Gouging out the eyes of the men in a gang who apparently couldn’t see anything wrong with what they were doing, cutting off the thumbs of people who used their hands for evil instead of good.

Sherlock imagined that if he were to exact the same punishments on his own body, he would tear himself limb from limb, rend his very atoms apart, paying for what he had done with every fiber of his being.  
But then again…Sherlock really was doing the world a civil service, in the only way he knew how, and that had to count for something in someone’s book. He knew, however, that no matter how he phrased it, no matter how he rationalized it or romanticized it, John would not understand. If only, if only Sherlock could explain it all, explain that he did it for him, for men like him who have been touched by the evil in the world, men who deserved a better life, men who did not deserve stray bullets.

  
As always, the depth of the feelings he had unexpectedly developed over the last few months confused and agitated and worried him until him mind was a helpless mess, a swirl of thoughts all demanding his attention and fleeing away before he could properly think it through, only to be replaced by yet another scrap of information jockeying for his attention.

  
If he had a case, this mess in his mind would not have been nearly so distracting, but as it were, there was nothing scheduled for the rest of the week, not even a serial killing, which meant that Sherlock stormed into their flat and donned his ratty pajama pants, his too-big t-shirt, and his blue dressing gown, and took it out on something, anything. Without a legal or illegal case to pursue, Sherlock settle for exacting his irritation out in the far wall.

  
It only took four rounds before John was sprinting up the steps, yelling, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Bored.”

“What?”

“Bored!”

“No.”

“Bored, bored!” Sherlock demanded, firing off two more rounds in a way that he knew would make the good soldier sick. “Don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes. Good job I’m not one of them.”

“So you take it out on the wall?”

“The wall had it coming,” Sherlock said, meaning so much more than he could explain.

“What about that Russian case?” John asked, seeming to accept the wall’s fate.

“Belarus? Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.”

“Oh, shame,” John said in that way that meant he wasn’t all that sympathetic. “Anything in? I’m starving. Oh!” John’s stream of words cut of, and Sherlock heard him mutter, “There’s a head. A severed head.”

“Just tea for me, thanks,” Sherlock called out with a fair bit of satisfaction.

“No, there’s a head in the fridge.”

“Yes?” Sherlock knew exactly what it was, who it had belonged to, and why it was there, but he didn’t think John needed that information.

“A bloody head!”

“Well, where else was I supposed to put it? You don’t mind, do you?”

“Well…”

“Got it from Bart’s morgue,” Sherlock lied quickly. “I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death. I see you’ve written up the taxi driver case,” he finished, diverting John’s attention.

“Yes,” he said, somewhat hesitatingly, knowing the rant that was coming.

“A Study in Pink. Nice.”

“Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of…pink. Did you like it?”

“Um…no,” Sherlock drawled, letting his irritation show.

“Why not? I thought you’d be flattered.”

“Flattered? Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.”

“Hang on a minute, I didn’t mean that…” John backpedaled, but Sherlock pounced on the hesitation.

“Oh, you meant spectacularly ignorant in a nice way. Look, it doesn’t matter to me. Who’s Prime Minister or…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Who’s sleeping with who, whether the Earth goes round the sun. Not that again. It’s not important.”

“Not impor…it’s primary school stuff. How can you not know that?”

“Well, if I ever did. I’ve deleted it.”

Utterly astound, John said, “Deleted it?”

“Listen…this is my hard drive. And it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish. That makes it hard to get at the stuff thatmatters. Do you see?” Sherlock wondered if he did see, if John did understand why he was so upset about this. His hard drive used to be full of only what was necessary, but since he had met John, there were whole fractions of his brain that felt fit to burst. So much about John seemed important, and thus, so much was stored away. Sherlock was not ignorant of what was important; on the contrary, he committed every detail, every small element, every minutiae of what was important, of what was John.

“But it’s the solar system!”

“Oh, hell, what does that matter?” Sherlock demanded, angry that John couldn’t see the truth and that he couldn’t explain it to hm. “So we go round the sun! If we went round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn’t make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots.” It was true enough, because if Sherlock’s mind was left just to play the puzzle that was John Watson, it would be ruined. Only the focus of the work, the ritual of the killing, could keep him mind from endlessly obsessing over John, a pointless and painful pastime. “Put that in your blog. Or, better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.” ?” It came out harsher than he intended, and immediately regretted his words as John grabbed his coat and stalked towards the door. “Where are you going?”

“Out. I need some air.”

Sherlock immediately felt his absence as he slipped to the window, watching the retreating form of his flatmate.

~

“There are lives at stake, Sherlock, actual human lives. Just…just so I know, do you care about that at all?”

  
A hundred responses flashed in front of Sherlock’s eyes, a thousand ways to tell John what he really cared about, what really mattered to him, but John was angry, and Sherlock knew enough of social niceties to know that now was not the time to confess any of his misplaced feelings. So instead, Sherlock kept his expression flat, his body still.

  
“Will caring about them help save them?” He asked rhetorically, thinking that the cold question would forcefully end the conversation.

  
As always, John surprised him. “Nope.”

  
“Then I'll continue not to make that mistake,” Sherlock said flatly, looking away, seeing the sudden truth in his statement and feeling sick to his empty stomach. In a tight, painful whirlwind, Sherlock saw that no matter how much he cared for John, he would never be able to save him. The more he cared for him, the more the unbearable weight of his love would crush him, ruin him. John deserved better than a love that would destroy his life. Besides, Sherlock Holmes was not the one for John Watson. Sherlock was a madman, a sociopath (with a soft spot, admittedly), a serial killer, and most importantly, a man that the good John Watson would be incapable of loving.

  
“And you find that easy, do you?” John demanded, and Sherlock, still bitter from his damning realization, spat an answer back.

  
“Yes, very. Is that news to you?”

  
“No…no.”

  
And then…and then John got that strange smile, the one that didn’t mean he was happy, the one he got when he was really upset but wasn’t sure what to do with those endlessly expressive features, the one he got when he was so surprised by what Sherlock had said, good or bad. He might not understand the intricacies of human nature, the way that a smile could mean an infinite number of things, but Sherlock knew this was not good.

  
“...I've disappointed you.”

  
“That's good, that's good deduction, yeah,” John bit back, sarcasm covering up the emotions he had previously let leak through.

  
Sherlock’s mind, impossibly fast, connected the impossible. But it couldn’t be…no, only seconds ago, Sherlock had silently admitted that he was not a man that would ever deserve John’s affections and yet…why would John be disappointed that Sherlock didn’t seem to care about anyone? John did his best to stay out of Sherlock’s relationships, and though he knew John often disapproved of how he interacted with other people, he had never taken such a personal offense. Why would John care that Sherlock admitted to not caring? Why, unless…no, it was impossible, surely, but...

  
No, it was impossible. John was merely upset that Sherlock, the man that he had near-fetishized into a god among men, was capable of such a lack of emotion. John saw Sherlock as a hero, and he was anything but. Feeling a sudden, all-consuming urge to warn John, to get him to see the truth of the situation, Sherlock said, “Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.”

  
~

  
Sherlock should have been paying attention to the case, should have been focusing on Moriarty, but as he and John passes through an alleyway at night, he couldn’t help but fixate on his John.  
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, meaning more than the silver speckled sky, meaning John’s own silver specked eyes, and on a twisting tangent thought, Sherlock wondered if perhaps the key to the universe, confounding as it is, was in John Watson’s irises.

  
“I thought you didn’t care about—”

  
“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it,” Sherlock interrupted, and was rewarded with a small smile and with two sets of stars to match.

  
Sherlock should have been paying attention, not been distracted by the twisting and turning of the holographic cosmos in the auditorium. If he had been sharp, aware, Golem would never have gotten a finger on John, would have been dead before John could even see him. As it were, Sherlock’s mind had been slowed, preoccupied by the infinitely curious universe, and there was a reason that Sherlock had deleted the solar system, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now, because John, his John, was pointing a gun and saying, “Golem. Let him go or I will kill you.”

  
This was not the first time that John had aimed a gun at a threat to Sherlock, but this was the first time he could see John’s eyes, and he knew, in that frenzied, gasping, starry second, that John Watson was falling in love with him. And it was the strangest kind of revelation to have in that moment, but one that Sherlock knew would change their relationship, change who they were.

  
The next hours were spent in a flurry of activity, without many moments to spare in which to talk to John. Besides the lack of convenient times, Sherlock was also engrossed in this case, in The Great Game, in Moriarty, in the murders that he would commit to please the government and the police, to help balance the weights of the world, and to protect his John Watson.

  
Even when they did have a moment to themselves, they just watched telly, Sherlock wrapped up in his long coat.

  
“No, no, no! Course he’s not the boy’s father. Look at the turn-ups on his jeans.”

  
“I knew it was dangerous,” John muttered.

  
“Hm?” Sherlock noncommittally asked, suddenly terrified that John had found out about the serial killings, that John had found him out and would leave and--

  
“Getting you into crap telly.”

  
“Not a patch on Connie Prince,” he commented, beyond relieved but hiding his reaction behind the turned up collar of his coat.

  
“Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?”

  
“Yep, He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood, again.”

  
“You know, I’m still waiting,” John said, and again, there was that intense fear that John knew, that John was waiting for him to say it, and it took all of Sherlock’s control to react rationally.

  
“Hm?”

  
“For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you’d have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker.”

  
More relief, and then a quick distraction. “It didn’t do you any good, did it?”

  
“No, but I’m not the world’s only Consulting Detective.”

  
“True,” Sherlock answered, thoughts spinning to Moriarty and how to rid the world of its only Consulting Criminal.

  
“I won’t be in for tea. I’m going to Sarah’s. There’s still some of that risotto left in the fridge. Milk, we need milk.”

  
I’ll get some,” Sherlock volunteered, thankful for the excuse for John to be far away from him for a night. Sherlock needed to finish this string of killings before he could risk telling John about them. The doctor was already worried enough, and to burden him with the knowledge that Sherlock wasn’t only investigating, but killing also, would needlessly worry him.

  
~

  
“Brought you a little getting to know you present,” Sherlock called out, his voice echoing across the empty pool room. “Oh, that's what it's all been for isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance... all to distract me from this,” Sherlock said, brandishing the memory stick for Moriarty to see, to draw him out where Sherlock could get his hands on him. For Moriarty, he was thinking about a very untidy death, a messy death indeed, for a man who didn’t want to get his hands dirty.

  
There was a movement in the shadows, and his own John Watson stepped into view, and for a moment, everything stopped.

  
“Evening,” John said flatly. “This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?” And it was the way he said his name that reassured him, that made him glad for the very first time in his life that he was wrong.

  
“John...” Sherlock played along, because wasn’t that what Moriarty had always wanted? For Sherlock to play the game? “What the hell—”

  
“Bet you never saw this coming,” John said, opening his coat and showing Sherlock a beautiful vest studded with explosives and laced with trip wires, a ticking timer brooch on his chest. “What would you like me to make him say next?” Moriarty asked through John’s mouth, making his half-sing some nonsense that obviously scared him.

  
“Stop it.”

  
“Nice touch, this the pool...” Moriarty dictated, “where little Carl died. I stopped him and I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”

  
Sherlock swore he could feel his own heart stop, as romanticized as that was. “Who are you?” A slow slide of movement drew his eye to a side door, where the man behind the numbers and the voices and the deaths stepped out.

  
“I gave you my number. I thought you might call. Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

  
“Both,” Sherlock said, pointing the gun at him and allowing himself to be just the slightest bit impressed by the man’s quick deductions.

  
“Jim Moriarty... hi. Jim? Jim, from the hospital? Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point.” Sherlock’s eyes wandered to his John, but Moriarty called his attention back. “Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see... like you!”

  
“Dear Jim,” Sherlock said mockingly, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lovers nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?”

  
“Just so.”

  
“Consulting criminal. Brilliant.”

“Isn't it? No one ever gets to me... and no one ever will.”

“I did,” Sherlock reminded him, though he didn’t bother to tell him what would happen now that he’d gotten him.

“You've come the closest. Now you're in my way.”

“Thank you.”

“Didn't mean that as a compliment.”

 

“Yes, you did.”

"Yeah okay, I did,” he said with a shrug and a smile. “But the flirting's over now, Sherlock, Daddy's had enough now! I've shown you what I can do, I cut lose all those people. All those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear: back off. Although I have loved this, this little game of ours, playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

“People have died,” Sherlock said, defending his secret profession of serial killing and fixing the system’s errors.

“That's what people do!” Moriarty shouted, embodying everything that Sherlock targeted, everything that was wrong with the word, and a very little bit of himself.

“I will stop you.”

“No, you won't.”

Foiling statements, opposite convictions, but what mattered to Sherlock was John.

“You all right?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“You can talk, Johnny Boy. Go ahead,” Moriarty teased. John nodded, and Sherlock held the memory stick out to this man, this…epitome of all he despised, all that he fought to set rid of.

“Take it.”

“Ah, that. The missile plans. Boring! I could have got them anywhere.” He tossed the stick into the pool, and John tossed himself at Moriarty, grasping around his shoulders.

“Sherlock, run!” And Sherlock’s stomach twisted and his brain spun and his heart fluttered, because John was so stupidly in love with him, and Sherlock loved it, loved him too.

“Good! Very good.” Moriarty laughed at his efforts.

“Your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up.”

“Isn't he sweet?” The man asked Sherlock. “I can see why you like having him around. But then, people get so sentimental to their pets and so touchingly loyal. Oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock was watching every move and shift and change in Moriarty, but he was also hyperaware of John. So, when his eyes widened and focused on his chest, Sherlock knew that the sniper’s target had changed.

John let Moriarty go, letting the threat of fire expose his priorities.

“Westwood,” he scoffed. “Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?”

“Oh, let me guess, I get killed,” Sherlock said, brilliantly aware of the irony.

“Kill you? Um, no. Don't be obvious I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special! No no no no no, if you don't stop prying...” and Sherlock saw the shift in his eyes, and he knew, he knew. “I'll burn you. I will burn…the heart…out of you.”

In a desperate effort, Sherlock said, “I've been reliably informed that I don't have one.”

“Oh, but we both know that's not quite true.” And it wasn’t, it was so far from the truth that Sherlock felt sure that John would question the statement, ask him what it meant, and he would have to tell his John everything. “Well, I better be off. So nice to have a proper chat.”

“What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?” Sherlock asked, another desperate try.

“Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.” Moriarty told him, opening his mouth and eyes wide, and Sherlock imagined shooting into those black, empty holes. “Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would, and just a little bit... disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Catch...you...later,” he said, circling closer to John, never taking his eyes or his aim off Moriarty until he disappeared on the echoes of his parting words.

“No, you won't!”

Sherlock jumped at John, dropping his gun and kneeling before him and unlacing the jacket, stripping it off his body and demanding, “All right? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine, Sherlock.” John reassured him as he slid the jacket as far away from them as he could. Was John was fractionally safer, he scooped up the gun and ran after Moriarty, but he couldn’t stray too far before he heard John’s echoing exclamation, the sliding of his shoes as he staggered, the rub of fabric as he leaned against a wall for support. Sherlock ran back in and distantly heard John asking if he was okay.

"Me?” He asked, surprised that John would think anything was wrong with him, but then, Sherlock realized there was something wrong with him: John. His good John, good to a fault, was bad for him in the best way possible. “Yeah, fine, I’m fine. Fine. That…thing that you…that you did. That, um…you offered to do, that was, um…good.”  
Sherlock, momentarily distracted by his appalling lack of eloquence in conveying something so important, was caught off guard by John’s next statement.

“I’m glad no one saw that.”

“Mm?” Sherlock automatically drew the conclusion that John meant he was glad that no one saw him defending, protecting, risking his life for Sherlock, because what would an act of kindness for a bad man do for a good man’s reputation?

“You…ripping my clothes off in a darkness swimming pool. People might talk.”

“They do little else,” Sherlock said back, and amazingly, they shared a smile, one of relief, one that hinted at a deeper connection, one that disappeared from their faces when they saw the red laser trained on John’s chest

“…oh.”

“Sorry, boys. I’m so changeable!” Moriarty half-sang. “It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself it is my only weakness.” Sherlock and John shared a fast, communicative glance, and one nod later,Sherlock had chosen his damning plan. “You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you. But everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

“Probably my answer has crossed yours,” he said, aiming the gun at Moriarty, then lowering it a few degrees until it was pointing at the lethal jacket or explosives.

Sherlock and Moriarty locked eyes, and for a few seconds, what felt like the balance of the whole world was on Sherlock’s shoulders. This was no different of a feeling than he usually had, but this time, the stakes were infinitely higher. If he failed to maintain the balance, a good man would die, and while sacrifice was sometimes necessary, he would not allow it in this situation, not this time, not this man.

The Bee Gees echoed around the room, and as Moriarty rolled his eyes, he said, “Do you mind if I get that?”

“No, no, please. You’ve got the rest of your life,” he snapped, so grateful for the delay, the distraction.

“Hello?” Jim asked into the phone. “Yes, of course it is. What do you want?” He mouthed an apology to Sherlock, who assured him the interruption was fine. Back at the phone, he yelled, “Say that again! Say that again, and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you, and I will skin you.” Sherlock and John shared a confused glance, but Moriarty’s voice called their attention back to him. “Wait. Sorry. Wrong day to die,” he said, looking distracted,

“Oh. Did you get a better offer?”

But he was ignored. Moriarty walked away, throwing “You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock,” over his shoulder before returning to the phone call. “So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don’t…I’ll make you into shoes.”

With a snap, he and his lasers disappear, and John starts to breathe again

“What happened there?”

“Someone changed his mind. The question is: who?” It was a valid question, because a sizable portion of Sherlock’s mind was centered around anything having to do with Moriarty now. But that didn’t mean that an even greater part of him wasn’t fixated on John. He had to talk to him, but alone, in private, so the formalities had to be taken care of as soon as possible.

They phoned Lestrade, and shortly after, he and an ambulance and what felt like half the police force arrived. Sherlock and John trudged their way through the reports to the police, the shock blankets, the physical examinations, and the cursory mental examination (though they didn’t bother with Sherlock.)

After several hours of questions and accusations and irritations and answers, John and Sherlock were in a cab on the way back to Baker Street. Neither one of them spoke, but they both knew the importance of the impending conversation.

They were only just inside 221B when John turned on him. “What was that?” He demanded angrily, but then he twisted away and stomped into the living room, and Sherlock knew the anger wasn’t directed at him. He followed the other man further into the flat, and when John whirled back the way he had come, Sherlock was already there, to catch his face in his pale, long, dual-natured hands. He held John’s face like he had during the Case of the Blind Banker, when they were investigating the yellow ciphers at the train tracks. He was gentler now, palms on his cheeks, fingertips at his temples, thumbs on his cheekbones.

John automatically held still, his eyes wide, his blood rushing to color his face. And it was that thought, the thought of John’s own blood, shed, exposed, wasted, that had Sherlock letting go and pacing away.

Leaned over his armchair, shoulders rigid, back to John, he said, “This was all my fault.”

“Sherlock, don’t…don’t feel guilty for this, it isn’t—”

“I don’t feel guilty,” Sherlock corrected. “I am merely stating the obvious.”

“The obvious…Sherlock, what are you saying? That–”

“Probably not, no. I’m saying that I am responsible for Moriarty coming after us. It all started—”

“With the cabbie, I know. But you didn’t kill him, Sherlock, I did. If anything, it’s my fault.”

“Don’t you dare!” Sherlock shouted, spinning around so fast that his coat billowed out around him. “Don’t you dare take an ounce of the blame, because you are one of the only good things in this world. And just because you are stuck with someone as bad, as reprehensible as me, doesn’t make you bad, all right?”

“Sherlock, what are you getting at?”

“I’m a bad man, John, I started this whole thing! Consulting Detective wasn’t enough; I had to be a serial killer too!”

“Now, hang on—”

“In my spare time, between cases, I go after people that deserve it, John. I correct the system’s errors, if you will, but just because I’m fighting for good, that doesn’t make me good, does it?” Sherlock turned away again, throwing himself down in his armchair, long coat and shoes and all.

“Sargeant Donovan…” John finally said. “She told me that one day, showing up wouldn’t be enough, that one day there will be a body and you’ll be the one to have put it there! Is that what this is about?”

“No!”

“Then tell me what’s going on!” John was looming over him, hands balled into fists at his sides.

No longer angry, no longer mad, Sherlock quietly said, “I already told you John, and you know I hate repeating myself.” John just screamed at him agitatedly, stalking away before he could explain any more, and that seemed to be the end of that.

~

In the months to come, many things kept them apart, kept them communicating their unspoken thoughts and opinions, from reconciling. Things like the Woman, like Mycroft, like accidentally on purpose walking into yet another of Moriarty’s set ups. The days, weeks, months, stretched without any kind of reconciliation attempt, until one morning.

Sherlock burst into the living room, bloody from head to toe, though most is splattered on his white shirt and his face. John turned to look, his eyes widening at the sight.

“Well, that was tedious." 

“You went on the Tube like that?” John asked incredulously.

"None of the cabs would take me,” Sherlock told him, walking out of the room, but John called him back.

“You’ve made a…real mess of yourself,” John said, moving to stand in front of him. Instead of meeting his eyes, John focused on Sherlock’s shirt, touching the lapel, the collar, the buttons, his fingers touching on the worst spatters of blood. “The neck?” He guessed.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, intrigued.

“Carotid artery,” John continued. “High velocity splatter, favoring the left side.” John traced his fingers, lighter than the trickle of blood, down his cheek, through the red that decorated his face.

“John…”

“Your moral absolutism doesn’t mean anything to me, Sherlock. Because this,” he paused to brush a bloody curl out of his eye, “this is what I…fell in love with, okay?” John was flustered now, because he was pacing away, absently rubbing the coagulating blood between his fingertips.

“John,” Sherlock called, quietly but firmly. As John turned to face him, Sherlock leaned the harpoon against the door frame. Leaving every opportunity to refuse, Sherlock held out his bloodied had, hoping, yearning, maybe even praying a little that John would take it.

John studied the extended hand for a moment before deciding to ignore it all together in favor of touching his reddened, stained shirt again. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to cover John’s hands with his own, pressing their hands against the mess of blood across his chest.

“Next time,” John said suddenly. “Either make less of a crime scene of your shirts, or duck out of the way of the spatters. Blood stains are so hard to get out of the wash.”

They shared a hesitant, secret grin, and Sherlock saw that his John was just bad enough to be good for him.


End file.
